Quel Loser

Last night one of my friends invited me to a birthday party for one of her friends in the suburbs. It was a nice gesture, considering I didn't know a single person there and felt like a bit of a crasher.
Anyway, after scanning the room, I scouted out a cute girl from Aix-en-Provence. I was wearing a tight, black t-shirt to show every nook and cranny of my perfectly toned pecs, and I had an adorable Anglophone accent--I was ready to work my "thang," as it were.
Something happened that only happens once in a blue moon: I was charming. We had a long conversation on everything from Aix, to Sarkozy, to how the effects of coffee don't actually come until six hours after you drink a cup, and how the "caffeine buzz" is just psychological.
Correct me if needed, but I'm still pretty sure she was incredibly wrong about this coffee thing. I've always read 15 minutes, but when you're going after a cute French girl, semantics don't matter. Six hours it is. As many hours as you want, mademoiselle.


We even got to the point of doing that little salsa dance where you hold each other and turn around. I told her she was cute, she giggled. We kept turning and looked longingly into each other's eyes. It was one of those ultra-rare moments when I had less than a 15% chance of rejection. I then did what anyone who knows me would expect me to do.
I stared at her like a goon and smiled awkwardly until the song was over. We let each other go, and there weren't any more salsa songs for a while.
The friends who invited me were tired and wanted to leave. But I needed another salsa song, dammit. Go ahead, friends! I'll catch up with you guys later! Haha!
Suddenly, when lift-off was imminent, the mothership crashed. I realized I didn't actually know anyone at the party anymore, and I was "that guy" who was clearly sticking around in a last-ditch effort for romance. I awkwardly ate snacks and tried in vain to strike up another conversation, but the iron had clearly cooled off. We did not dance again, and the night ended with an awkward French cheek kiss--a greeting which I have come to call the "Kiss of Doom," since it never signifies anything else.
In conclusion, I am ridiculously lame.
Note to you ladies: If you think I like you (and if you have to ask, the answer is yes), then make the move. We will see Korean reunification before I ever get enough confidence to actually kiss a girl and move past my 13-year old, Peter Pan-ish existence.
True, the relationship would have lasted for thirty minutes.

But children, strike while the iron is hot.